


Good Plan

by hestia_lacey



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-30
Updated: 2011-10-30
Packaged: 2017-10-25 02:31:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/270751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hestia_lacey/pseuds/hestia_lacey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porny episode tag to Echoes, mostly inspired by the idea that John being clever is Rodney's biggest turn on ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Plan

The Deadalus dissolves in a rush like running water around John; the ZPM room materialises in a white-silver wash of downward movement, a waterfall over John’s senses. The air is cool and light against his skin after the dense, oppressive heat of the ship; the shift raises gooseflesh along his arms, skin a prickle of sensation beneath his clothes. John shudders at the way his skin pulls taut, sighs at the relief of the chill. It feels good, like the press of toes into cool sand in the sear of the California sun.

“So,” he says, turning slowly on the balls of his feet toward Rodney, still flushed pink and damp with sweat, “ I think that went - ”

“Shut up.”

Rodney cuts his sentence short with the down-curved blade of his mouth, pressed into a thin line. It’s not at all what John expects, not when the last few days have been so... comfortable, when they had fit so well into each other’s space. The words are sharp, and something like angry only not quite rough enough to come from that. John straightens, eyes the slope of Rodney’s shoulders, the dark, damp patches at Rodney’s underarms when he shakes his jacket irritably away. His hands are quick and deft on the ZPM, fingers steady, working with an economy of movement that belies whatever emotion it is that makes his eyes shadow dark like that, that makes the muscle of his arms tense. There’s something in the way Rodney’s body moves that John should understand, something about this change that he should recognise. It’s familiar, somehow: John swallows around a throat gone inexplicably dry.

“Rodney, what - ”

Rodney stills, hands motionless on the console where he’s pushed the ZPM down, back into its place. His eyes fall closed, shutting out whatever it is about John that has him this way, and he murmurs, low and non-negotiable: “Shut. Up.”

The command in Rodney’s voice, the vibration in the undertone makes John’s face heat. That change in Rodney that John couldn’t quite make sense of is suddenly comprehensible: that voice. It’s the voice he knows from the dark, from nights twisted up in Rodney’s body, in his sheets; hearing it here is disorienting, makes him want to turn away and obey, do both at once. It makes him nervous. Rodney taps at the console, then nods decisively to himself, tilts his chin up. His hand comes up to his radio. “Radek, it’s done.” John doesn’t hear the response.

Rodney turns to face him then, eyes heavy and blue-black along the lines of John’s body, slow, evaluative and just enough to make John shift self-consciously. When they touch on John’s lips, slide up the ridge of his nose to his eyes, John drops his gaze, rubs at the back of his neck. “Look, did I - ”

He doesn’t get any further. Rodney crosses the barely-there space between them in a one-two beat of feet that has him in John’s space before John even looks up; Rodney’s hands are tight around his upper arms, twisting into the fabric of his damp t-shirt. The strength in his grip, in the way he propels John back hard into the bulkhead has John speechless, pliant with shock and a sudden thrill of arousal. One of Rodney’s hands slides up to grasp tight in the sweat-damp spikes of John’s hair; the other slips up to John’s collarbone, presses him back into the wall.

John is breathing hard and his cock is pressing uncomfortably along the rough seam of his fly when Rodney’s knee pushes forcefully up between his; he spreads his legs on instinct, lets his head fall back at the yank of Rodney’s hand. A hard sound grates up Rodney’s throat before he leans forwards and licks up John’s neck, tonguing at the places the sweat has gathered. The heat is back now, thick and unrelenting between them.

John’s hips jerk along the flexed muscle of Rodney’s thigh at the drag of Rodney’s mouth along his skin and he can’t help the dazed “ah,” the movement pushes out of him, the sound he makes when Rodney scrapes his teeth along the gasp of John’s throat. This is not something they do, but it is at the same time, and John is losing himself to the way they are together.

He has just enough of himself left, just enough of himself that hasn’t already given itself over to Rodney’s pleasure, to know that this is dangerous.

“Rodney, we can’t, can’t – not here,” he pants. Rodney shifts both hands down to the back of John’s thighs in response, to the place where the flesh curves up into the swell of his ass, and lifts, pulling John into him as he thrusts up, pressing them together. “So fucking clever,” Rodney whispers into the shell of John’s ear; John knows straight away what he means, just like he knows what his math does to Rodney, what it can make him do. The sensuous hiss of Rodney’s voice, the pressure of their movement, the friction of cotton and skin makes John moan; Rodney swallows the sound with his mouth on John’s, demanding and brutal and loosing John’s hold on rationality until he can’t remember what sense is, until ‘clever’ is fading away. The bite of his fingernails into his clenched palms is all he has to hang on to.

When Rodney breaks away to heave in air, John presses his face into Rodney’s neck and murmurs, “not here” behind Rodney’s ear, says it again, “not here, Rodney,” to convince himself that letting go is a good idea.

Rodney tenses, breathing hard and harsh, and after a long moment nods against John’s skin then steps back; John is left bracing himself against the wall, looking absolutely wrecked. Rodney swipes a hand over his own reddened mouth, then reaches forward to straighten John’s shirt, pulling the hem down over the rise of his BDUs.

“Your quarters, fifteen minutes,” he rasps. He presses one last, hot, open-mouthed kiss to John’s lips and then pivots on his heel, walks away, jacket held out in front of his body for cover.

John waits as long as he can, until his breathing is settled as close to normal as it can be, and follows him.

* * *

John is first to his quarters. He radios Elizabeth on the way there, tells her he’s taking a shower before he even thinks about the debrief; she says Rodney’s doing the same thing and, God, she has no idea, no idea at all about what they’ll be doing, what Rodney will do to him.

Because this is how it is after a near-miss, how it is when they need to touch and feel and know, how it always is when they’re together. How it is when John finds the solution when Rodney can’t.

John is thinking about the last time, bent over his desk, hands scraping for purchase where they pressed slick against the cool surface, Rodney kneeling behind him, tongue slicking into John’s body. “Tell me,” Rodney had begged, and let John come only when he’d explained how he’d solved what Radek, what Rodney had missed for days, given him every single part of the equation.

Thinking about that makes his pulse jump. He kicks his boots away and thinks about undressing himself for Rodney, but doesn’t do more than unholster himself before Rodney arrives.

The door hisses open, shuts with a pant: Rodney steps up to John, takes him by the shoulders and has him slammed up against the doorframe just as the door panels meet. His eyes are inked deep blue now, and there are a thousand things written in them. The pink flush high across his cheeks hasn’t faded; sweat beads fine along his brow, his top lip. John licks his lips, leans forward to catch the salt tang of Rodney’s upper lip on the very tip of his tongue. The sweep of John’s tongue turns into a deep, licking kiss when Rodney tilts his head up; John spreads his legs around the angle of Rodney’s hips and lets himself go lax, melt into Rodney’s grip as he melts into the kiss. Rodney makes a sound that vibrates through his chest, straight down John’s spine.

“No talking,” Rodney pants when he breaks away, when his hands go to John’s fly and work it open with the same quick, deft flick of his wrist John knows from so many different things, from watching Rodney way closer than he ever should have done. Rodney spreads the material wide, slides his hand inside the fabric enough to curl around John’s cock, guide it through the cotton of his boxers.

“No talking,” he says again, a whisper between them, and lowers himself slowly to his knees.

“Okay,” John slurs, dazed at the curl of Rodney’s hand around the base of his dick, at the way Rodney looks when he’s between his legs. When Rodney dips his head to lick delicately at the head, John whines high in his throat and tips his head back to thump against the wall. Rodney teases the crown with a broad sweep of his tongue, a chaste press of his lips to that spot on the underside that can make John  
come if he thumbs it hard enough. John has to bite his lip against the noise he wants to make at just the thought of it.

Rodney doesn’t tease for long: he doesn’t have the patience or the relish for the torment that John does. He licks along the length of John’s dick from balls to head, pressing in along the thick vein, then opens his mouth, tightens his lips around the width and slides down, all the way back down in one smooth slip of heat and suction. John’s knees buckle under the weight of the sensation; he leans back hard into the wall and reaches out to place his hands on the top of Rodney’s head, helpless against the suction when Rodney starts to move his head up and down, stroke up behind John’s balls with two hard fingers.

The steady, unfaltering rhythm Rodney finds is maddening, the regular press of his fingers sparking in the black of John’s closed eyes. This, the steady, relentless up, down suction and the fuck of Rodney’s fingers moving ever higher, harder, has John strung tight, high, so close to coming and so fucking far away. Each movement, every pull of suction has the heat in his belly coil tighter, no closer to release.

Just as John opens his mouth to say, to fucking beg for something, anything, Rodney pulls his head right up until his lips fit snug under the crown. John opens his eyes when Rodney stays like that, looks down his body; Rodney looks up at him from his place at John’s feet, eyes blue and bright under the long sweep of his eyelashes. Rodney blinks once, then drags his teeth over that spot right under the head; John feels his eyes roll, feels his stomach flutter at the pleasure-pain of the movement. When Rodney repeats the scrape again, pressing harder, longer, John feels the wound spring sitting low in his belly snap, a dull twang of sensation that makes him gasp, a violent release that makes him shake under Rodney’s hands, steadying on his hips.

John stutters, “Rodney, I’m, I’m - ” and then he’s coming into Rodney’s mouth, pleasure pulled straight through every part of his body as Rodney sucks through his orgasm. When John is done, Rodney pushes himself shakily to his feet, manhandles John back against the wall and into a hard kiss. Rodney’s mouth is slick and wet with John’s come. Rodney doesn’t swallow, and John doesn’t care because he does this instead; pushes John’s semen into his own mouth, where John swallows it down. It’s absolutely filthy, inevitably messy and John loves the way it makes him feel.

“Jesus. Jesus,” John rasps, breaking away with a pant. A smear of his own come is caught at the corner of his mouth. Rodney’s eyes catch on it, bright and soft with heat, with something that makes John blush, writhe under the press of Rodney’s hands. Rodney kisses him again, soft this time, sucking at Johns tongue for the taste.

John’s hands slip up under the hem of Rodney’s shirt as their mouths move together, slicking over the damp skin, scraping his nails gently up towards Rodney’s navel.

“Clothes,” Rodney says with a pant, stepping back to skim out of his t-shirt, suddenly hurried, push at his pants. John complies as best he can, peeling out of his own shirt, pushing the tangle of his pants and underwear away, limbs clumsy with the aftershocks of pleasure.

When he’s naked he folds down at Rodney’s feet, hooks his fingers into Rodney’s belt loops and tugs the material the rest of the way down; Rodney is shaking with his own arousal, fumbling with the fastenings. Rodney steps forward out of the fabric, puts his cock level with John’s mouth. John’s breath over the dark, flushed skin makes Rodney’s hips stutter.

Pleasure drunk, John can’t help the way he smiles then, can’t curb the impulse to lean forward, lap at the slit of Rodney’s cock where pre- come has gathered, making the head slick and shiny and tempting in the half-light. His eyes are dancing when he looks up at Rodney, slips the pout of his mouth loose around the head. His mouth is still slick with his own come, and he knows how much Rodney likes the thought of that, of John’s semen slicking him up, making the slide of mouth and tongue on his dick an intense pleasure.

Rodney’s hand comes up to tangle in John’s hair, hold him steady as he pulls back to rub the leaking head of his cock across John’s lips, red from the press of his teeth, the drag of Rodney’s mouth across his.

“The way you do this,” Rodney pants, voice breaking when John licks at the taste Rodney’s cock has left behind, “Clever,” he rasps, stroking his free hand down the side of John’s face; John turns his head into the caress, rubs his cheek against the cup of Rodney’s palm.

John wants to suck Rodney, wants Rodney to fuck into his mouth, leave his hand curled into John’s hair and just take; he can’t find the words for that, so he lets his mouth relax into the pout he knows makes Rodney crazy. He looks up though his eyelashes, meets Rodney’s gaze, head still tilted into Rodney’s palm, folds his hands behind his back.

“God, John” Rodney whispers, then bends forward to take John’s mouth in a kiss, tongue thrusting hard into John’s mouth. John moans around the slip of it, unresisting, the push of it into him. Rodney brings John to his feet with a tug of the hand in his hair.

Rodney’s hips thrust into John’s as his hands slide down the slick line of John’s back, cupping his ass and pulling the cheeks apart, pressing the pad of one index finger in and along, down to John’s opening. “I want...” Rodney says when he breaks away.

“Yeah,” John pants, pushing himself back into Rodney’s hands, because he wants Rodney to fuck him and doesn’t care how, “Yes.”

Rodney’s mouth is hot against his again as he steps John back to the bed behind him, pushes him down to sprawl at the edge. John spreads his legs, lifts them up; they frame Rodney’s body when he reaches over the splay of John’s to fumble in the bedside table.

Rodney’s fingers are slick and cool when they reach down between John’s legs to slide and press; two fingers hook in easily, slip up into John’s open body in a single push that makes John catch his breath. Rodney moans at the effortless slide, braces his thumb against John’s perineum and thrusts his fingers hard up into him. The stretch is good; the way Rodney’s fingers nudge over John’s prostate is even better, aflash of pleasure like orgasm shuddering along his nerves. It makes John writhe into the motion, makes his eyes roll, even though he knows he won’t come again.

Rodney keens at the way he moves, pulls John’s body down towards him. In the black of his closed eyes, John listens to Rodney slick himself, makes a low, open vowel sound when the head of his cock snubs against his hole. John reaches out to draw Rodney down to him, tries to hook his legs around Rodney’s back, pull him in.

“No,” Rodney says “this,” pushing John’s arms wide, curling his hands over the edge of the mattress. “This,” he rasps again, hands in the joints behind John’s knees, pushing his legs up and wide. Rodney wants him spread open, wants John to take what he has to give.

When John is pressed down and opened out the way Rodney wants, Rodney reaches down between them to adjust himself and thrusts once, pushing his cock all the way up into John in one hard slide.

John cries out at the sensation, “ah!” pushes back into the stretch and burn.

“You feel,” Rodney says, leaning down to kiss John’s mouth, rub his face in the curve of John’s neck. He pulls back, slow glide of skin against skin, and thrusts back into John’s body hard, “Christ, you feel...”

John feels so much here. The pace Rodney sets is hard and fast; it’s the raw kind of fuck that John loves the most, but raw in another way, too, in the way Rodney runs his hands over John’s body, pausing to press at the pulse points, the way his mouth is against John’s, gentle.

“’m here,” John murmurs. Rodney tangles his fingers with John’s, pressing them into the mattress, squeezing them hard with every inward thrust.

“I know. I - ” he says, then shudders and picks up the pace to something almost brutal. The way his cock presses over John’s prostate is intense, makes lights flash and fizz in the corners of John’s eyes.

Rodney is watching the way John twists, can’t take his eyes away. John is beautiful underneath him, flushed and panting and sweating and he needs to know, so Rodney opens his mouth and tells him.

“You are so fucking beautiful,” he confesses, right into the shell of John’s ear. John’s head tosses where it’s thrown back against the blankets like he’d deny it if he could find the words. “You are, John. And so bright, so fucking clever. God, I wanted to do this,” he says, pressing up and in as hard as he can, making John gasp, “I wanted to do this when we were still up there, when we were... right over the fucking console, John.”

John shudders at the thought, the idea of being spread out over the cool metal and flashing lights, clenches tight around Rodney and makes a startled, stuttering sound; pleasure jolts through him and he would think he was coming except that he isn’t even hard again yet.

The clench of his body is a shock of pleasure around Rodney; he fucks into John short and sharp, moaning desperately into John’s shoulder.

“Come for me,” John says, bringing his legs in to wrap tight around Rodney’s middle, pull him in and keep him there, fucked up inside him, “Come in me,” and with a jerk of his hips, Rodney does, mouth open in a silent scream against John’s collarbone.

John holds him, brings his hands up to stroke through Rodney’s hair, the nape of his neck.

“God,” Rodney breathes into John’s neck. He pulls carefully back and out of John’s body, arranges himself next to John on the narrow mattress. John curls into his side, sighs at the ache between his legs when he shifts, at the come he can already feel slipping down the inside of his thighs. He loves this.

“It was a good plan,” he murmurs into the upward curve of Rodney’s shoulder when his heart has settled, when Rodney’s breathing has settled in beside it.

“Shut up,” Rodney says without meaning it, mouth a soft, happy curl where it presses against John’s temple.


End file.
